


and with these hands, i pray (at the shrine of your body)

by starrytobios



Series: for i have sinned [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Gen, Kageyama Tobio-centric, M/M, Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:49:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26234434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrytobios/pseuds/starrytobios
Summary: So Atsumu isn’t an angel. But he also cannot be human, not from the way he makes Tobio’s breath catch in his throat, or the way he makes him squirm under his gaze, like he carries heavenly conviction in the bronze blends of his eyes.
Relationships: Kageyama Kazuyo & Kageyama Tobio, Kageyama Miwa & Kageyama Tobio, Kageyama Tobio/Miya Atsumu
Series: for i have sinned [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1894735
Comments: 10
Kudos: 89





	and with these hands, i pray (at the shrine of your body)

**_***_ **

_Grandpa smiled and related this story:_ _"Stop and think for a moment about the hands you have_ _how they have served you well throughout your years._ _These hands, though wrinkled, shrivelled and weak have been the tools I have used all my life to reach out and grab and embrace life.”_

**_***_ **

Tobio’s grandfather was full of sage advice, stories weaved into the creases in his aged skin. There was enlightenment in the kind looks he gave, serenity in the low, tender tone of his voice when he spoke to Tobio. And the little prince always, without fail, listened with wide eyes and a keen expression; he took every word to heart as if it were as indubitable as creed itself, because what else should he have done? Who else could have guided him as flawlessly as his grandfather did? There were no other male authority figures for the prince to admire, his father was always on his conquests, he had no uncles, no cousins, no brothers. All Tobio had was a mother that was more interested in court matters than him, a father occupied in the army, a sister much older than him, and a grandfather who loved him irrevocably. 

But that was still enough. After all, God did not like those who were ungrateful for all they were blessed with.

So he appreciated it. He devoted himself to every spoken word, never took the smiles for granted, always sat beside him when they prayed, copied the little nuances of his behaviour, looked up to him as if he was a prophet, held on tight to the hands that guided him through his early life.

_“Your hands are important Tobio; it is with those hands that you wield a sword, that you command armies, that you silence a crowd, that pray to God.”_

Tobio remembers the way his hands had looked so small when laid in his grandfather’s larger ones, lined with countless decades and rough against the youthfulness his skin possessed.

_“You must always look after them.”_

Now thirteen years old, he stares down at the very hands that latched onto his grandfather as he grew, enjoying the comfort found in hands warmer and more wrinkled than his own, always perfectly manicured, the hands of a king. He stares down at those hands, critiques the perfect arc of his nails, immaculate and smooth, just like grandfather taught him, and tucks them in on each other, tearing his gaze away. Because he cannot look at them any longer.

He cannot stare at the very hands that held onto a dying king until his very last breath sounded from his lips, God winning the tug of war he had initiated with the prince over his grandfather’s life.

And instead he looks on ahead, the oxford-blue of his eyes muted, eclipsed with an all-encompassing grief, as the priest droned on in the background, conducting a funeral that Tobio never wanted to attend, no matter how inevitable.

People say if you pray, read the Bible, lose yourself in the black ink of ancient text, God will give you everything without hesitation. God is kind, grandfather always said, he is merciful. But where is His kindness now? Where is His mercy? 

His father and mother always said, God punishes wrongdoers severely but standing here, with lines of mourning courtiers behind him, Tobio doesn’t understand where he went wrong. 

What sins of his called for such harsh penance? 

What is he being punished for? 

_Why did the Lord take his grandfather away?_

He feels the first crack in the stronghold of his beliefs, feels Satan dancing over the spot where gospel once ran in his veins, and he shakes his head, trying to force down these rebellious, damnable thoughts. Doubting the Lord is a sin, he knows this very well, so why can’t he help adding fire to the flames that were already calling his name?

It’s things like this that make him feel like this is divine punishment, atonement for his peccancy.

This is his fault. It must be. 

So Tobio stands stiff with stinging eyes, and refuses to let tears fall. He lets his vision blur, lets his lashes grow heavy with teardrops, lets redness pollute the white of his eyes like water plagued the waters of the Nile. But he does not cry, he doesn’t allow himself to. Because he is not worthy, he doesn’t deserve to mourn when this must be his fault. This is the almighty’s way of proclaiming that he is not good enough, and no matter what his parents may say, he doesn’t deserve the crown.

Next to him, Miwa twitches, taking his hand in her own and squeezing it tight. Tobio wants the warmth of familiar hands, but instead gets the cold of silk gloves against his skin, not quite as comforting as his grandfather’s grip, but appreciated nonetheless. Of course Miwa would have thought to hold onto him at a time like this, while Tobio was caught up in his self-pity, she was doing what a real leader should be doing: looking out for others. And it serves as the first, but definitely not the last, indication that God did not set Tobio aside because he was special; he hasn’t got the social aptitude of his sister, nor her level-headedness, but he must have something she doesn’t. He must have something that makes their parents fawn over him. There must be some reason everyone says God chose him.

A little voice in his head tells him that the answer is simple: it’s a lie. And Tobio isn’t sure whether it means the fact that God picked him specifically, or all his beliefs in general. Either way he feels sick to his stomach, as if the devil was clawing at his vulnerable shell, and coaxing him into something he should not believe. He wonders if God is as merciful as his grandfather said, if he could forgive stray thoughts like this?

**_***_ **

_I will never look at my hands the same again. But I remember God reached out and took my Grandpa’s hands and led him home._

**_***_ **

It is a month after the funeral that Tobio feels like this is a punishment far too cruel for a mere boy. 

He finds God passing judgement on him in every stained-glass window, in every sermon and every pastor’s preaching, now feeling prolonged without his grandfather beside him; he feels like he is under the scrutiny of deific eyes at all times, like hell-fire is lapping against his unguarded skin, singeing through the defence his prayers no longer provide.

It builds up, and he lets it, because he is sure he can bottle it all up, push it all down, resume life like beforehand. But he is wrong, so _utterly_ wrong.

Tobio doesn’t believe in witchcraft or curses, but he does believe in God, and when he snaps at the only friends he managed to make in court during sword training, he feels like this is part of his twisted plan to make Tobio suffer as much as possible for this sin he must have committed. Tobio’s blood runs cold at the sight of their blank faces, and like the darkness fell over Egypt, their love for their prince fell into an ebony abyss. Total resignation setting in for Tobio.

It’s Miwa that ushers them away, because Tobio isn’t eloquent enough to apologise, or to tell them to leave, or to explain the painful searing in his chest. And Tobio feels it once again, the indescribable unworthiness for the throne, that the crown should be on Miwa’s head instead. And for the first time ever, in an act of pure impiety, he curses the Lord for making the mistake of choosing him.

That night he tries to cry, tries to lament and lose his pain in wracking sobs that would echo through his every bone and make his throat raw. He tries to pray — like his grandfather taught him, head bowed and hands outstretched — tries to beg for forgiveness, tries to seek an audience with the God his grandfather assured him was so magnanimous. 

But he gets nothing; no tears, no divine intervention, just thick silence that chokes him. 

The lack of tears feels like it is part of this sacramental sanction set on him and the image of a benignant deity begins to crumble away to give way to the vengeful and tyrannical creator his parents warned him of. And the cross in the corner of his room that used to hang as a reminder of his faith, now feels like a death sentence brandished with holy words that threaten him for not being good enough.

And he thinks that maybe he deserves it.

**_***_ **

Tobio is thirteen when he first meets him — a mortal that seems to gleam like the gods — in the hall where he is instructed by a master swordsman. Alone now. Because no one else wants to train with a bratty prince that snaps at them without explanation.

(He was tempted to give up on sword training, but then his grandfather’s words reminded him to stay put, because this is one of the reasons to keep his hands precious. It is a form of worship in its own right; worship of the crown and the royalty running in his veins).

He feels the pads of his fingers smoothly outlining the curve of his head before he knows his name.

Tobio is thirteen when he makes a complete and utter fool of himself, letting out an unearthly shriek and tumbling onto his back at the impromptu appearance of a blur of brown hair from behind the shield stand. He slams his head against the ground and feels like an _idiot_ , not a crown prince but a jester, and he is scolded by his teacher. 

But the brown blur — which is really a boy who looks to be not much older than him — snickers, all gummy smiles, messy hair and quirked eyebrows. Tobio feels like he should hate him, feels like a commoner should not be able to poke fun of royalty. But he is ushered to the sidelines by his teacher, and all he can do is pout when he is examined by this stranger who puts his hands in his hair, and on his chin and lets his fingers flitter over his skin.

And his touch _burns._ The skin that is held by him feels like it is aflame, patches of scarlet spreading across Tobio's cheekbones. Tobio has heard of angels, the royal priest depicts them in his sermons, has heard of their wondrous wings and overwhelming presence. But angels are terrifying beings really, with a million eyes bursting through their skin as they watch your every move. He peers at the stranger closely, but cannot see an unusual amount of eyes, in fact he feels more comfort than he should when he confirms he has the regular two.

So he isn’t an angel. But he also cannot be human, not from the way he makes Tobio’s breath catch in his throat, or the way he makes him squirm under his gaze, like he carries heavenly conviction in the bronze blends of his eyes. 

"Well, your head ain't got no bumps, so that's good," says the boy, who he learns is called Miya Atsumu, his sword teacher's son. He looks as though he is going to pull away. 

_Finally._

It's too warm with him this close, too stifling, like he is breathing up all the air and leaving Tobio with empty, stinging lungs, the same feeling he used to get when he would attempt singing hymns in one big breath as a child. 

But then Miya frowns, "Ya' look real red, ain't got a fever comin' on do ya?"

"N-no..." Tobio manages to croak, throat unbelievably dry for reasons unknown, and he eyes the hand that is still pressed up against his cheek, "Let go of me...please."

The snort that follows makes him abandon the idea of Atsumu being an angel completely.

“Look at that, a prince sayin’ please like a right goody-two-shoes,” Tobio hates the tone of his voice right now, hates the sly smirk spreading on his lips, a look all too devilish to belong on a youthful face like his, “Ya’ ain’t gonna make it far in this world playin’ all coy and nice, Yer Highness.”

And then he lets go, taking the warmth of his hands with him. Tobio is left to wonder what he means, what sort of advice that is, and why he suddenly misses the searing sensation of his palms pressed up against his skin. He is left to wonder contemplate whether Miya Atsumu is an angel, with a stare that had the same gravity as a hundred pairs of eyes would have, or a devil, with aggravating features and the ability to get under someone's skin and set up camp there like it was his second home.

Or maybe he is neither, maybe both, maybe less than, maybe more. 

All Tobio knows for sure is that there is no answer for this boy in either testament, nor in any scripture that accompanies it. Nor is there an answer for the tingling sensation left in every place that his fingers once lay.

Tobio feels like this is some sort of divine encounter, but why would the child of an insignificant swordsman — a civilian standing amongst blessed nobility — have any importance to a prince picked by the almighty to lead his kingdom with grace and wisdom once he is of age?

And he is left to wonder whether this is a new installment in the ongoing punishment he is receiving.

**_***_ **

_When my hands are hurt or sore or when I stroke the face of my children and wife I think of Grandpa. I know he has been stroked and caressed and held by the hands of God. I, too, want to touch the face of God and feel His hands upon my face._

**_***_ **

Hands are for sword fights, silencing crowds, commanding armies and praying. Especially for praying. And even though he now fails to love the God his parents have hailed throughout the castle, after gruelling years of discovery and lack of self-worth, he will never look at his hands without remembering the advice he was given as a child. 

Hands are precious because of that fact, irreplaceable in their worth, so Tobio takes extra time to appreciate the hands of those he loves. He will squeeze Miwa’s hands when she holds his, will happily high-five knights like Tanaka and Nishinoya, who insist that this is how soldiers celebrate, will shake Hinata’s hand whenever they make a ridiculous bet over the stupidest things. It is how he shows that he cares.

But for Atsumu. Oh for him, Tobio worships. For him, his hands outstretch like they do in prayer. On the bad days, when he cannot get out of his own head, and struggles under the weight of everything around him, it is Atsumu who his hands claw at, and desperately reach for peace of mind — an invocation for his help. Tobio digs his nails into the sanctuary of Atsumu’s figure, and lets his gospel sound in his ears, like he is all the prince is allowed to hear, to think about, to love, to worship. For him, Tobio profanes with his unworthiest hands, and touches God’s face, feels his fingers on a being so heavenly that he cannot be real, intertwines them in this deity’s flaxen locks, gently brushing against the chocolate strands of his undercut. For Atsumu, Tobio commits gentle sin, writes purple psalms on the pages of his skin, blasphemes as he holds him higher than the Lord, higher than heaven itself.

And although he is unworthy, Atsumu’s hands do the same for him, they cover his eyes with tenderness, and thumb away at his jaw when their lips meet; they feel like a hot brand against his inner thigh and dare to slip under his shirt, dare to move southward, dare to lead a king-to-be. They are calloused from years of labour and sword training, but offer more comfort than empty litanies and worthless services.

Tobio uses his hands to pray at the shrine of Atsumu’s body, like only he could save him from his sins, like only he could cease the punishment of Tobio’s existence.

He worships again and again and again, hoping that he can forget the treaty being signed behind his back, and the golden ring with a name that is not Miya Atsumu etched onto it, set aside for the prince’s hand. He wants to find salvation in Atsumu’s being, but in deepest parts of him, Tobio knows that he is merely hiding from the truth that he will one day have to tell, because there is nothing you can hide from the all-knowing. There is nothing you can hide from Atsumu, with a stare like the angels, a nature of hell, and the divinity of God Himself.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> this part feels a lot more clumsy than the first but yea idk how to fix it,,,ANYWAYYYYY just little look into kazuyo’s passing and how that makes religion a harder conflict for tobio! i honestly still can’t believe furudate really recontextualised tobio’s entire character with 387 and kazuyo,,it’s crazy.
> 
> the poem in between scenes is one we read in school like YEARS ago (grandpa’s hands by melinda clements) idk why i included really it just reminded me of tobio and fit the vibe? i hope lmao.
> 
> miwa and alisa will Finally get some real focus in the next part so there’s that to look forward to ,, hope y’all enjoyed this part <333
> 
> n yes. tobio is getting engaged <3 mwah
> 
> (p.s follow my twitter @/kaikxge for some atskg/kghn/other ships brainrot)


End file.
